Cold
by bogusboobs
Summary: Bobby gets a late night visitor.


Title: Cold (1/1)

Author: Bogusboobs

Rating: M for language and sexual content

Disclaimer: This is my first-ever foray into fanfic. The characters are not mine, but the NYC apartment Bobby inhabits used to be mine!

Cold.

Of all the things that had ever awakened him in the early hours of the morning, Bobby's least favorite was the sensation of being cold. There was something about the knowledge that, if he'd only thought to wear something – _anything_ – to bed, or if he'd simply remembered to close the damn bathroom window, he could have slept peacefully until the sounds of the City coming to life outside his window finally roused him from his slumber.

And yet here he lay, freezing to death while – from October through May – apartment-dwellers in buildings all across New York were bemoaning the fact that their shoebox-sized domiciles felt like the insides of blast furnaces. "Fucking window," he whispered to no one in particular. He sat up stiffly in his bed and, gathering the down comforter around himself like a cocoon, padded barefoot through the darkness toward the bathroom.

His feet met the sub-zero surface of the tile floor with a stinging slap. "Damn," he said out loud, and immediately chastised himself. _Keep talking to yourself that way_, he scolded, _and you really will go crazy_. He wriggled one arm out from beneath the warmth of the comforter, turned on the light, reached across the commode, and attempted to close the window.

It didn't budge. _Of course not_, he thought. Blind optimism compelled him to take one more run at, but there was no movement. Sheer frustration dictated his next move: he spread his long, tapered fingers wide and slammed the heel of his hand against the glass, hoping to jar the window loose. Later, he'd remind himself that frozen glass, even the tempered variety common to apartment bathrooms such as his own, is apt to shatter if you strike it with enough force.

The damage to his hand was minor, however, and as he stepped onto the slightly-less-frosty bathmat to make a closer inspection, he briefly considered showering before attempting to bandage the wound. He retrieved a washcloth from the towel rack and laid it across his palm, using his fingers to apply gentle pressure to the wound. It was Saturday morning, December the 23rd, 2006. Precisely 2:43 a.m.

Bobby was not unaccustomed to the wee hours; he chose this time to re-analyze evidence, or to reflect on and ruminate over past failures. Sometimes he walked the streets of Manhattan, observing those around him and stretching his profiling muscles. _Use it or lose it_, he told himself. There was never a shortage of ripe and ready subjects in the City's cafes, bars and late-night groceries, and he often found comfort in the sound of his solitary footfalls on the sidewalks, or echoing from the streets and alleyways around him.

A sound from his living room caused Bobby to snap back into the present. "For the love of God," a woman's voice called. "It's _freezing_ in here."

Bobby stood still for a moment. He'd thought – hell, he was _sure_ – that he'd been alone. His mother's failing health had left him too distracted for romantic pursuits (even of the briefest sort), and so, as he had been for each of the past sixty-two nights, he was most certainly _alone _in his apartment.

He silently considered the present state of affairs: his firearm was in his bedside table, and within easy reach, if he moved quickly; he was naked, but anyone who would invade his home at this hour would have assumed the risk of finding him thus, and could not be heard to complain about it; and, finally, the owner of that disembodied female voice had likely entered the apartment well before he awoke and, if she'd intended to do him harm, she could surely have done so as he slept.

Bewildered by the possibilities, he simply answered: "I'm in the bathroom." Then, in a voice more childlike than he'd planned, he added, "I think I broke a window." A moment later, the woman stepped into the light, and the floor collapsed beneath Bobby's feet.

_Nicole_. Her face, which had initially registered caution, broke into a wide grin. "You're entirely hopeless," she told him. "You know that, don't you?"

He was stunned into silence by the sight of her, and yet he nodded slightly. _He knew._

"Come on out here and away from that broken glass," she commanded, displaying equal parts compassion and amusement. Though he was still baffled by Nicole's presence in his bedroom, Bobby nonetheless obeyed. Once he'd cleared the threshold, she stepped briskly past him and approached the shattered window.

Taking a bath sheet firmly in hand, Nicole filled the small space where the glass had been and effectively banished the cold. She turned to face him. "Dustpan?" she queried. He gestured toward the kitchen with the exposed arm, and she immediately noticed the wound on his hand.

Nicole advanced and took hold of his hand with a casual familiarity that surprised him, given their history and the fact that she'd apparently broken in to his apartment. "You did this? Just now?" He nodded. "All right," she said, and headed toward the small kitchen; "come with me."

Bobby didn't move at first. His mind was racing, and he was trying desperately to process what little information was available to him. He hadn't heard her enter the apartment. _How did she get inside?_ She hadn't called out to him when he first broke the glass. _Maybe she entered after that, while I was dressing the wound?_

_Dressing the wound._ He nearly laughed out loud. _Some job I did_, he thought, peering down at the blood-soaked washcloth he'd wrapped around his palm. _Marcus freakin' Welby._ And now she was buzzing around his kitchen as though she'd been there a dozen times. His head was swimming.

"Are you coming?" she called.

He began to move toward the kitchen door, still wrapped up in his comforter. Nicole's voice, light and relaxed as a summer breeze, echoed from the kitchen: "I guess you'll be wanting a robe for Christmas." Bobby blushed and pulled the comforter more tightly around himself.

_What the fuck?_ he wanted to shout. Nicole's last words to him had been a veiled threat. _That's one more thing you've taken from me, Bobby._ She'd been referring to the girl, Gwen Chapel. Nicole's attempt to create a "normal" family for herself had led her to choose a drug-addicted medical examiner who had planned to kill his daughter and frame Nicole for the murder.

As Nicole opened every cabinet and drawer in the kitchen, Bobby recalled his attempts to convince his colleagues that Nicole's ultimate choice to deposit Gwen with family in another state was an attempt at redemption, and proof of her growing self-awareness. He was, however, alone in his assessment, and Nicole's final, threatening message to his cell phone had forever clouded the notion that she had acted in anyone's interest but her own.

_She's come here to punish me_, he thought flatly, and a part of his brain resigned itself to whatever fate had in store. He entered the small kitchen and stared at Nicole as she buzzed about the place in search of clean towels and God knows what else. A second later, she brushed past him, headed back toward the bathroom and – he guessed – something with which to bandage his hand.

"I don't …" was all he managed to utter as she breezed by.

A moment later, Nicole dragged him bodily toward the kitchen sink and set to work on his hand. "My goodness, Bobby," she teased. "I can't remember the last time I left a man so completely and utterly speechless." She stood with her back toward him, tucking his arm under her own as she positioned his hand beneath the faucet. Bobby noted the presence of a faint floral odor. _Gardenia? _As the warm water flowed over the gash in his hand, Nicole inspected the wound for stray shards of glass. Satisfied that it was clean, she turned off the faucet and carefully applied some tape and gauze she'd found.

"I don't understand," he tried again. "How can you just … _be here_, in my apartment, with all that's happened?" _You're under arrest_, he wanted to say, but it seemed beyond ridiculous. He tore his hand from hers with such violence that she was nearly knocked off of her feet. She calmly regained her balance and swiveled toward the small kitchen table. She pulled out a chair, then sat down and began speaking.

"Bobby, sit down please. I need to tell you something – something important."

The light from the fixture above and just behind her threw shadows across Nicole's face. Bobby stared deep into the pits that were her eyes; her expression was inscrutable. As his mind struggled to understand the events which were unfolding before him, Bobby grappled with a fusion of fear and anger that made his face feel suddenly hot. He took a step toward her, flinging the comforter to the floor as he did so, and began waving his arms and screaming at her across the small space.

"You've killed people, s-so many people!" He yelled. "Innocent people, co-conspirators, former lovers … anyone for whom you had no further use! You killed Bernard in a Courthouse, for Christ's sake! And now you have something _important_ to tell me? Tell me this, Nicole," he spat the words at her, "tell me why I shouldn't do the world a favor and put a bullet in your psychotic brain right here and now?"

Nicole sat calmly before him. For a brief moment, he thought that perhaps she hadn't heard him, or hadn't understood. Then she spoke, in a voice barely above a whisper. "You can't do that, Bobby," she said, slipping a hand into her pants pocket and producing a slim metal object. She laid it on the table and pushed it toward him. It was an ammunition clip. "Of course," she went on, "I've taken your weapon as well."

Bobby dropped his gaze from her face, from her contemptuous grin; he looked down at the table. He felt a stabbing pain, deep in his chest, and wondered absently if he might be having a heart attack. _If anything could make me drop dead in my kitchen_, he thought, _this would be it._

The realization that he was standing before her naked hit him a second later. He pursed his lips together and, blushing, pulled the comforter around himself again. He saw Nicole take a breath, and prepared himself for some bit of sarcasm or innuendo. But Nicole seemed to think better of it. She exhaled audibly, and a heavy silence fell over them both.

Bobby spoke first. "How long?" he whispered.

"How long what, Bobby?" Nicole countered instantly, and he felt his anger rising again.

"How long have you been in my _fucking_ apartment?"

"Oh," she smiled, "_that_. Just about two hours." He was stunned, and it showed on his face. Nicole smiled broadly, flashing her perfect teeth at him, and continued. "I thought it best to get the lay of the land, as it were, before we spoke. I found your gun and your ammunition fairly quickly, of course. No need to hide them in a home without children." She saw him flinch, and tossed her hair in acknowledgement of her little victory.

He realized suddenly that he was giving her precisely what she wanted. She was getting to him, and it showed. Despite the fact that his hand hurt, and that he was exhausted, and that his feet were screaming at him for being forced to endure yet _another_ icy tile floor, he forced himself to settle down enough to solicit some information. "All right," he said, feigning disinterest. "What do you want?"

"I'm leaving the country," she said, glancing at the clip on the table. She picked it up and began idly caressing it with her fingers. "For good this time."

"I don't believe you," he replied flatly, and she immediately looked up at him, "but _do_ go on."

She smiled a little, impressed at his renewed composure. _Such a worthy adversary._ "It's true, Bobby. I've struck a deal with the District Attorney's Office to avoid prosecution for my crimes in this country."

She paused for emphasis. "There's a catch, of course." Her voice trailed off, and she waited for him to press her for more details. They stared at each other for what seemed like days, each refusing to accede to the other's wish. Finally, she delivered the payoff: "I'm being deported back to Australia to face justice there."

"You're insane," he told her, taking particular pleasure in throwing that phrase back in her smug little face. "They can make out a capital case here, and Australia has no death penalty. There's absolutely no way they'd let you get away." Satisfied with his analysis, he tipped his chin slightly upward toward the ceiling. _Gotcha, you homicidal bitch._ Despite the small victory, he was acutely conscious of the fact that, underneath the comforter, he was still naked. As a truck rolled past on the street below, he clung fast to what little dignity he had left.

Nicole waited patiently as Bobby's words filtered down through them both, giving him an opportunity to re-think his position. When he appeared unwilling to do so, she prodded him. "Think harder, Bobby," she coached. "There's one way."

Bobby's face flushed hot. He was getting angry again. She was getting under his skin. Again. _Only Nicole would have the stamina to hold a Socratic debate with a naked man at three a.m._ He vowed to hold himself steady for one more round. He inhaled deeply through his nostrils and held the breath for the briefest of intervals. Then he exhaled, and the answer presented itself.

"You had something, or someone, to offer them."

Nicole was giddy. She dropped the ammo clip on the table and clapped her hands together loudly enough to startle them both. "Precisely, Detective!" she exclaimed. "You win the prize!"

_Prize?_ What freaking prize did _he_ win? Despite his best efforts, Nicole had eluded capture time after time. She'd made him a fool, cuckolded and taunted him and made him doubt his own sanity. And now she was offering … what?

"You'd be absolutely astonished at the people one meets when one is living 'under the radar,'" she told him, getting up from her chair. She was instantly back in her professorial role, schooling him on the ways of New York's underground. "And you can't imagine the secrets they're willing to reveal to those they think are in the same bit of trouble." She dropped her voice to a whisper, invading his personal space and trailing her fingers along the edge of his comforter in a way that made him shiver. "It's another world entirely."

Caught in her rabid gaze, Bobby felt exposed in a way that transcended his nakedness. He pulled the comforter tight and withdrew, white knuckled, from her grasp and the room she still occupied. Then he froze, but it was too late. Nicole had apprehended the gesture, had _smelled_ the terror on him, and she pounced. "My dear, dear Bobby," she cooed. "Don't you know by now?"

He honestly didn't have the faintest notion, but she didn't make him wait long for it. "I," she began, advancing on him in the living room and extending her arms toward him for emphasis, "could never harm you."

Bobby swallowed hard, and he tried not to panic. "Why are you here?" he asked, anchoring himself to the spot and trying his best not to appear intimidated. Nicole had killed more than a dozen people without reservation and, apparently, with no lingering feelings of guilt. He didn't for one second doubt that, if it was in her interest to do so, she'd kill him too. Though he still had no idea where she'd put his gun, he knew for sure that there was a live round in the chamber.

But Nicole just smiled at him like some damned Cheshire cat; she boldly closed the distance between them. "I wanted to see you, Bobby," she said, her breath warm on his face and throat, "just one last time before I leave you forever."

_Forever._ The word hung in the air like a harbinger, but – as was true of every word she'd spoken since the day they met – it too was a lie. "Promises, promises, Nicole," he challenged. "Every time I think I'm rid of you, you suddenly appear on my doorstep." _And who's your Daddy _now

She laughed, taking a fistful of cotton-covered down in each hand and pressing the tip of her nose against his chin. "I suppose you're right," she whispered. "It's a bit like _Romeo and Juliet_, really." She smelled faintly of something he couldn't place; as he contemplated his answer, Bobby closed his eyes and briefly breathed her in.

A half second later, he shook himself back to sanity and responded. "Romeo and Juliet were children, Nicole. They were immature and impulsive, and they died needlessly together." _Magnolia? Freesia?_ He shook his head again, more slowly this time, and the stubble on his chin grazed her forehead. "Is that what you have in mind for us, Nicole? Because I'm tired, and I'm cold, and I have to get up in a few hours."

"Going to see your mother, no doubt," she said sharply, and waited for him to react. She was baiting him. She wanted and needed and _expected_ his rage to surface again. He could do it too, he realized, and the truth of that fact surprised him a little. Though he was unarmed, naked and barefoot, he was fully and absolutely capable of hurting her. _Hell_, close as she was, he could grab her by the throat and break her neck before she had a chance to utter her next insult.

But Bobby held himself back. Something about Nicole was different. He'd seen her in so many guises – seductress, liar, killer, professor, _stepmother_ – and he'd watched her experience as many emotions. But something was different this time. She was, he thought suddenly, somehow _resigned_. There was no real pleasure in her smile, and the banter seemed forced. The dance she was trying too hard to choreograph was one he was beginning to recognize, and it occurred to him that it was time _he_ began to lead. He needed to take control, and to figure out what it was she was really after. What he wanted _least_ of all at that moment was to be and to do what she'd expected he might. _Whatever the fuck that is_.

He blinked, and a strategy pulled into port. "Forget it," he said, stubbornly refusing to take the bait. "Just say whatever it is you came to tell me and get out. Go make your deal with the D.A. and fly home, Nicole. I hear it's summertime in Sydney."

Nicole pulled back a bit and regarded him with a profound sadness in her eyes. She had obviously expected to go a few more rounds. Bobby's eyes narrowed. "Just tell me," he insisted. Fear had given way to annoyance.

"You're never going to see me again," she summarized, and dropped her gaze to the floor. "I thought perhaps there were some things _you'd_ like to say to _me_."

"Other than, 'you're under arrest,' you mean?" He wasn't playing anymore. She was in his house, and she'd disturbed his sleep. "Or maybe: 'why did you have to open the only window in the place that sticks?'"

Nicole felt his disdain like a slap in the face. _Game over._ It was time to come to the point. "Not exactly," she said, and shook her head slowly. Her blond hair fell softly around her shoulders.

And at that precise moment, Bobby's eyes were opened; he understood why she'd turned up at his home in the middle of the night. He was utterly disarmed by the realization of it, and the shock was evident on his face. She _had_ come for him, but not in the way he'd expected. Without another word, Nicole took hold of his shoulders for balance, stretched up toward his face and placed her lips to his.

Bobby's eyes closed without his permission; the two stood like that for a moment, until a need for oxygen forced them apart. Bobby's mouth opened, and he appeared ready to say something, but Nicole shushed him with two fingers across his parted lips. She then slid her fingers downward, drawing the comforter aside she did so. Moving still closer to him, Nicole crushed her breasts against Bobby's bare chest and tilted her head upward. She began gently kissing and sucking the skin along his neck and jawline. He was distantly aware that there were words falling from her lips, but he was unable to comprehend them; the pounding of his heart drowned out all other sound.

Nicole slid her hands beneath the comforter, up along his bare back and toward his shoulders. Her hands were cold, and he shivered. For the first time since she'd begun kissing him, he heard a phrase he recognized: "Sorry about that." His immediate impulse was to tell her that it was all right. The apartment was cold, after all. But then he remembered who it was standing before him, nuzzling the sensitive skin at his throat and, _for the love of God_, sucking on his earlobe.

"Stop," he whispered. "Please stop." Nicole abandoned her sensual assault on his neck and rested her forehead against his chest.

"Are you sure?" she whispered. "Are you really sure, Bobby?"

He wasn't. He wasn't sure of anything at that moment. Of course he knew what was required of him as a detective, charged as he was with enforcing New York State law. He was also dimly aware that Nicole's past lovers were mostly, well, _dead_.

And yet his mind was suddenly filled with the image of a woman sobbing in the stacks of the Middleton Community College Library, appearing to all the world (or, at least, to him) to be grieving openly for the mistakes of her past. She'd intervened to prevent Gwen's murder at the hands of her father and uncle, and appeared hopeful for her future as protector and surrogate mother to the child. There had been talk of redemption, and of being "healed."

_She wouldn't love me if there wasn't anything good about me._

Bobby closed his eyes and tried to imagine Nicole as she was before her corruption at the hands of men. His head hurt with the effort. _Too much damage has been done._ But even as he tried feverishly to close any door in his mind that might have permitted him to follow where Nicole was attempting to lead, he was suddenly and inexplicably transported back to his own youth, and a time when redemption seemed a remote and abstract concept indeed.

He believed such stories even less now than when he'd first heard them as a child. It was ridiculous in the extreme, he told himself, this notion that Christ's blood had been ransomed for the likes of himself and Nicole. And yet his faith remained – stubbornly so – despite all of his efforts to obliterate it with science and sarcasm. _She wasn't truly lost._ Not yet. She couldn't be. _Not so long as there was breath in her body._ Bobby leaned on the lapsed altar boy within himself, and did what he'd always feared that God might not: he forgave Nicole; he forgave himself; and he prayed silently for the salvation of their souls.

He wanted to believe it. Hell, he wanted _her_. Or at least his body did. While his brain had been alternately building a case for handcuffing her to the radiator and for saving her immortal soul, his body had been engaged in other activities. He was half-erect already, and the fact that she had begun to gently, rhythmically grind her hips against his groin meant that Nicole was well aware of the effect she was having on him.

And so, with her question still hanging in the air, Bobby capitulated, both to the conceits of his mind and to the desires of his body. He breathed a solitary syllable: "No."

Few words passed between them in the moments that followed. He would recall later that Nicole had pulled back, that their eyes had briefly met, and that a single tear had plunged down her alabaster cheek. He'd recall further the moment when he first kissed her, possessively and with a passion long denied, then took her firmly by the forearm and – abandoning the comforter once and for all – began leading Nicole toward his bedroom.

There was no hesitation whatsoever in her body, no attempt to be coy or pretend to resist his advances. Nicole clung desperately to Bobby's naked form, kissing and stroking him as she followed him down the hallway. Halfway to the bedroom, she grabbed hold of his swollen cock with such bold self-assurance that he tripped and took her with him sprawling onto the floor. Nicole laughed and placed a small hand against his whiskered cheek. "Careful, Bobby," she cautioned, "or you'll kill us both."

Bobby ignored the subtext, if she'd intended any. Nicole leaned in and kissed the tip of his nose an instant before plunging her tongue into his mouth. He was breathless and half-choking, but he couldn't pull away. She intended to possess him, every inch. And he'd agreed to give himself to her, for good or ill.

Bobby managed to sit up a bit with Nicole astride his hips. She'd closed her eyes and had begun to gently rock against his erection. He was captivated by the sight of her as she took control of her own pleasure. For the first time, Bobby began cupping her breasts in his big hands. _As if they'd been lovers._ The delighted moans this elicited from Nicole drove him to hastily reach beneath the sweater she wore, and to release the clasp on her bra. He slipped an arm around her back and drew her closer, capturing her mouth with his own for an instant before he pulled both the bra and sweater up and over her head. As Nicole's bare breasts came into contact with the sparse hair on Bobby's chest, she ceased her rocking, opened her eyes and simply looked at him.

Bobby's heart stopped. It occurred to him that perhaps she'd finally realized what was happening, and had been struck with a sudden attack of buyer's remorse. Now she, too, was naked, or nearly so. He was excited and terrified at the same time; he felt that in that moment he was catching a glimpse of Nicole as she had been before her fall, before she'd shut herself up against human emotion forever.

The voice inside his skull, the one that he relied on so heavily in his work, was screaming: _There! There you are!_ He smiled like a fool, hoping against hope that he'd somehow reached her. But it was over in an instant; Nicole blinked twice and shook her head almost imperceptibly. She smiled sweetly and shifted her weight so that he might once again caress her breasts.

"Touch me again," she breathed. She took hold of his ears, thrust her breasts toward him and kissed him, hard. She was asserting herself again, proving that she was in control. The sparkling little girl had been crushed to death beneath the weight of Nicole's need to connect with him in the way that made her feel most powerful. Bobby pulled back sharply and shook his head, not because he intended to deny her, but because he didn't intend to do it on the hall carpet.

"Not here," he told her, and lifted her off of his lap. He got to his feet and held out his bandaged hand to her. "In there," he clarified, and tossed his head toward the bedroom.

Nicole took his hand gently and got to her feet. She moved as if to stroke him again, but he was careful to hold himself away from her greedy little fingers. "Come on," he beckoned. _I want it as much as you do._ Bobby's tone was soothing, his smile reassuring. Nicole relaxed a bit and let him lead her into the bedroom. Once there, they kissed again, less hurriedly. Bobby eased Nicole onto his bed and stretched out beside her, kissing her face and neck as he did so. Then, as she'd requested, he again began to caress her.

Nicole's breasts were full and soft, and they swayed with a gentle, pendulous motion as she writhed under his touch. The combination of her arousal and the persistent chill in the room had caused her nipples to become rigidly, almost painfully erect. As Bobby lowered his head to one nipple and began rhythmically sucking, Nicole gasped and arched towards him. She wound her fingers into his hair and began kissing the top of his head. Bobby felt gooseflesh erupt on Nicole's skin, and he moved to cover her body with his.

"Please," she begged. "Don't stop."

"Never," he said, pausing just to long enough to direct his attention to her other breast. As she continued to moan beneath him, he unzipped her slacks and slid his hand inside. The satin panties she wore were soaked with her arousal; Bobby swallowed hard. _She wants it too._ He pushed the flimsy garment aside and slipped one finger, then two, inside her. He pressed his thumb against her clitoris and began massaging the tiny nub. Nicole pressed her head backward into the pillows. Her breath came in shallow puffs, and her eyes shut tight. _Come for me,_ he silently commanded. _I want to hear you._ A moment later, Nicole's body arched and went rigid with the shock of her orgasm. She cried out his name once, twice, and then went limp beside him.

Everything about her body was lush and warm, and it occurred to Bobby that he could happily spend the better part of a week nestled in the curve of her hip, pressing kisses against her luxurious flesh and plunging into her velvet depths. Despite the dangers he knew were lurking just beneath the warmth of Nicole's exterior, Bobby found himself intoxicated by the feel of her body against his own. _Had her other lovers sensed this?_ _Had they become so drunk that they'd let down their collective guard and surrendered themselves to whatever fate she'd had in store for them?_

Bobby pushed such thoughts aside and released her nipple with an audible _pop!_ He sat back on his heels beside her prone form and began to remove what remained of her clothing. Once he had rid Nicole of her slacks and panties, Bobby paused a moment to take her in. In the half-light, she appeared small and far younger than her years. Her eyelids were heavy with the afterglow of her orgasm, and her full lips were parted.

Nicole became aware that Bobby was staring at her, and she crossed her arms over her chest self-consciously. He smiled; this was a side of herself she'd hidden from him during their prior encounters. Her sudden insecurity pleased him, and his ardor increased visibly. He slid the back of his left hand along the inside of Nicole's right thigh, inviting her to spread her legs. When she complied, he situated himself between her knees and dipped his head toward her body. His first kiss, carefully placed between her breasts, elicited a small gasp. The next, along her collarbone, brought forth a groan of frustration.

_Wait for it,_ he signaled, nuzzling the soft skin of her neck, _just a little longer._ But Nicole grew impatient. An instant later, Bobby felt her fingernails skate along his spine and down toward his backside as she began pulling him toward herself, urging him on. He wasn't going to be rushed, he decided; instead, he simply lowered himself so that she might feel his weight on her; so that she might feel him hovering just outside of her body, and just beyond her reach.

But reach she did, prying their bodies momentarily apart and sliding her hands in between. She wrapped her fingers around him and began stroking, softly yet purposefully, with the obvious aim of moving things along. Bobby grunted – half in protest, half in acknowledgement of the eternity it had been since anyone had so firmly and masterfully caressed him – and helplessly thrust into her hands. _It's been way, way too long._ He vowed never to deny himself again for such an interval, and then turned his attention to the matter at hand. His breath caught a second later as Nicole dropped her shoulders and reached lower, massaging his balls and whispering words of encouragement.

"Your turn," she was saying. "Come to Mummy." Bobby smiled and drew Nicole's left earlobe into his mouth. He freed himself from her grip, braced himself on both elbows and spread his knees apart so that their bodies were aligned. Then slowly, ever so slowly, he curled his hips toward Nicole's body.

She'd apparently expected a more dramatic approach. Perhaps a skywriter painting the words _HERE I COME_ in the air above them. But his slow, gentle advance was a surprise indeed, and it threw Nicole off her game. As he began to enter her, unceremoniously and with a tenderness she'd not experienced before from a lover, Nicole closed her eyes and quietly welcomed him. She neither fought against him nor made any attempt to guide or hurry him along. She simply allowed herself to be taken. For perhaps the first time, she fully and knowingly consented.

Bobby pressed his lips against Nicole's neck. He could feel her heart racing through the delicate skin. He guessed that she was probably fighting the urge to take the reins again, and he delighted in her exercise of self-control. He was fighting a battle himself; the combined effect of their vigorous foreplay and his extended dry spell had left him aching for release. "Is this all right?" he whispered as he continued to advance. "Am I hurting you?"

Nicole opened her eyes, turned toward him and spoke in a slow, deliberate whisper. "I'm fine, Bobby" she said. _More than fine._ She took note of the warmth and concern evident in his expression and kissed him tenderly. Bobby stilled for a moment, content to enjoy the physical connection, the sense of possessing and of being possessed, and the utter lack of pretense.

He was struck with the sudden urge to weep. Instead, he began to move again, inspired by the raw honesty in her kiss and the feel of her arms caressing his body. The pads of her fingers played lightly along his back and shoulders, and with her thighs she applied gentle pressure against his midsection. He felt warm, surrounded and loved.

But with each thrust of his body, and each corresponding promise of trust and affection from the woman beneath him, Bobby Goren hated himself more and more. _Too much damage has been done,_ he'd told her. _You are not safe to be around._ He'd condemned her to solitude and demanded that she surrender her freedom. In insisting that she come to terms with the "truth" of her life thus far, he'd asked her to sacrifice any chance she might have had at a future, and any real chance for redemption. He'd given up on her, and had asked her to give up on herself.

He'd even had the audacity to be shocked when she rejected his demands and fled from him, insisting on pursuing her freedom and destiny despite his fervent appeals to reason and common sense. She was maddeningly, frustratingly independent to the last.

But with each panting breath from her lips and each rhythmic tightening of her body around him, Bobby knew he'd been wrong about Nicole. Horribly wrong. He knew it because _he felt safe with her_. Safer than he'd felt in years, in fact. It was exhilarating, and the inadequately-mothered boy in him wanted it to last forever.

Unfortunately, 'twas not to be. "Nicole," he warned. He was getting close.

"I'm here, Bobby," she answered breathlessly. "I'm with you." And those words – those simple, reassuring words – pushed them both over the edge. Bobby lunged forward, crushing her beneath him as he came to a shuddering climax. He pressed his face into the pillow beside her head so that she wouldn't see the regret in his treasonous face as he screamed her name and emptied his soul into hers.

Her kiss on his shoulder a moment later brought him back to himself, and he began to lift himself off of her. Before he could withdraw, Nicole tightened her grip on him and threw a leg across his backside. "Stay a little," she implored. Bobby looked at her face, flushed and sweat-damp from their coupling, and nodded his acquiescence. He still feared smothering her; as a compromise, he gently rocked back, taking some of the pressure off of her chest even as he remained safely tucked inside. He pressed his lips to her brow and closed his eyes, determined to give her as much time as she needed.

"Sweet pea," he whispered against her forehead.

Nicole's subsequent burst of laughter rent the air above them; it filled the room and spilled out into the hall. It also had the unfortunate effect of expelling Bobby and putting a rather uncomfortable coda on his performance. But if he felt any discomfort at all, Bobby chose not to show it. He was enjoying both the sound and the feel of her laughter against him, and he particularly enjoyed the knowledge that he'd facilitated this spontaneous outpouring of joy.

"Did you," she roared, barely able to get the words out, "just call me 'sweet pea?'"

Bobby blushed and shook his head. The ridiculousness of it hit him too, and he laughed as he attempted to explain: "No, no. It's the scent you're wearing. It's been driving me crazy all night. It's sweet pea, isn't it?"

Nicole managed to collect herself just enough to answer him. "I've been staying with some people. The shampoo in the guest bath was apparently purchased for a little niece of theirs." Her laughter subsided, and she smiled as she pressed her hand against his cheek. "It's rather insistent, I know. I suppose I shouldn't be at all shocked that you picked it out."

There was a brief silence between them, and through their smiles Bobby felt the weight of Nicole's situation bearing down upon them both. She allowed him to climb off her; Bobby rolled onto his back beside her and began studying the ceiling. Nicole sensed the gathering clouds and tried to lift his spirits. "I suppose now that we're a bit more Adam and Eve than Romeo and Juliet, wouldn't you say?"

Bobby immediately understood. "Wait a moment," he pleaded, and disappeared from the bedroom. He was back in a flash with the damnable comforter. Nicole snorted; the reappearance of the last barrier between them sent the two into a fit of nervous laughter. Bobby leapt back into bed and quickly covered them both.

Their joy was short-lived; Bobby had questions, and he needed answers. "Can you," he began, "tell me more about this deal you've made with the D.A.?"

Nicole looked incredulous. "Worried about me, are you?" But her sarcasm wounded him visibly, and she immediately regretted teasing him. "Don't be. I'm a big girl, Bobby, and I'm prepared for whatever life, and the Australians, have in store."

Bobby's face was dark. He wanted to respect her wish not to discuss the matter further, but he was desperate for more details. "It's just," he urged, "that I want to be sure you're not leaping from the frying pan into the fire."

Nicole smiled sweetly and rolled onto her side toward him. She planted a small kiss on his temple and whispered the last words she would say on the subject: "Bobby, you know me better than that." He was instantly reminded of the words her ex-husband had used – a lifetime ago, it seemed – to describe Nicole's conversational manner: _pillow talk wasn't her style._

She flopped onto her back and closed her eyes. "You've quite worn me out," she said, and then peered over at him with a mischievous look. "I don't suppose you'd agree to tolerate my company for an hour or so? I could stand a short nap before I surrender myself to the authorities."

He stroked her arm gently, and it was his turn to be resigned. The magic of the last hour had nearly evaporated, and the stark reality of it hit him like a kick in the shins. "Stay as long as you like." His heart was like a lead weight in his chest. _She's already gone._

Two hours later, as his alarm heralded the arrival of another dawn, Bobby awoke unaware that he'd ever fallen asleep. He was mildly disoriented, and he thought fleetingly that he might have dreamed the previous night's encounter. Any such notion was quickly dispelled by the sight of his bandaged hand and the bruise on his backside. One additional thing was clear: Nicole was no longer in his bed, nor anywhere else in the apartment. His ammunition clip and gun (with the chamber round still inside) were on the kitchen table.

Bobby toyed briefly with the idea of calling a friend in the District Attorney's office to check on Nicole's story. But he knew there was no point. There was no deal, and she probably had no plans to return to Australia. In fact, it was likely he'd never know what had led her to take the risk of coming to his apartment as she did.

He couldn't care about that now. It had happened, and he needed to believe that it was about more than manipulation and jockeying for advantage. _What had she gained, anyway?_

Bobby drew a heavy sigh and headed toward the bathroom to shower. The bath sheet was still stuck in the window. He turned the water to a scalding temperature and stepped inside. _At least_ _I'm not cold anymore._


End file.
